


On the Line

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Light BDSM, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: Armie and Timmy have a phone call the night before that L'Officiel party. (You know which one.) It ends up taking them into a slightly angsty, very sensual place.Thank you to all my Slack crew, you guys are the f**kin' best.





	On the Line

**Author's Note:**

> For Lil Bevy B.

“Crema?”

“Crema.” Armie’s answer told Timmy it was safe to talk on the phone and that Armie was either alone at home, or somewhere he couldn’t be overheard.

Fucking Crema. Timmy couldn’t believe they’d picked that as their code word. Now even if the last thing he wanted was to think of those three perfect months, “wrestling” at night until their thighs were entangled and they couldn’t tell their breaths apart, walking the cobblestone streets until dawn on their last night together and stroking the sun-bleached walls,  _ if we don’t look at the sun it won’t rise _ , now it was the first word out of his mouth if he wanted to talk to Armie.

“How have you been?” Timmy asks. He paces the floor of his apartment. The radiator has just kicked on and the room still bears a bitter January chill. He has to keep walking to stay warm.

“Fiiiine,” Armie teases, sarcastically drawing out his response. “But you didn’t call just to see how I am.”

“Maybe I did,” Timmy teases back. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you. You call for one of three things. You’ve left something over here and you need me to mail it back. You’re about to fly and you want me to chat you up so you don’t get so nervous. Or—” Armie’s voice hitches, and Timmy recognizes the thick emotion in his voice that only happens when Armie’s been drinking. His voice is lower when he resumes, “or you’re asking me to come see you. Because you miss me. Even though you know I can’t, not just like that. Even though you know I miss you just as much. Maybe more. Maybe always more.”

Timmy lowers his voice too so that Armie would know he was just as serious. “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m in the living room, the one with the windows that look out over the city. Liz is at music lessons with the kids. I’ve got the lights off and I just poured a scotch.”

“Sounds nice.” Timmy gazes around his nearly bare apartment. His windows look out on the brick wall of the next building, and the nicest liquor in his house is a bottle of schnapps that Giullian left in the fridge after a party last week.

“And I’m thinking about you.”

“Me?”

“No one else.” Armie’s voice is so low Timmy could barely hear him. “I’m on the couch in that sweatshirt they let me take home from the set, the one from—"

“The waterfall,” they both say at the same time.

Timmy lays back on his bed, watching headlights streak the ceiling above his bed when cars pass. God, he remembers that filming day so well. Shooting those few takes cold and wet from the mist, turning to touch Armie and feeling like Armie’s hair and skin were the only warmth in the world at that moment. And in Armie’s apartment after the filming day was over, the night bore a rushed, surreal quality, both of them simultaneously themselves and their future selves, looking back on these moments and wishing somehow they’d held, caught, been preserved in amber and laid underground for a thousand years.

Maybe that urgency was what had driven Armie to let Timmy tie him up for a change. As soon as he thought of that night Timmy could see Armie laid out before him, soft green cotton ropes criss-crossing his body, staring up at Timmy with utter trust and desire. And Timmy straddling Armie, loving his helplessness, running his hands all over his throat and through his hair like he knew Armie longed to do. And then kissing him, so gently, so tenderly, all over, so that Armie would know his trust had not been misplaced.

When they had gone out for their usual espresso that morning at dawn, they hadn’t been to sleep at all.

“What else do you remember about that night?” Armie’s voice is louder now; Timmy knows that means the Scotch is working.

“You know what things,” Timmy teases, and realizes that he was hard just from thinking about that night after the waterfall scene, “the ropes, the light on your skin, the way your skin tasted like that fresh mountain spring.” Timmy inhales and realizes his breath is shaky. “The feel of you inside me, the way when we came we both cried, the way we didn’t even speak over coffee the next morning because for one fucking moment we just were, and were together, and there was nothing to say.” After he’d gotten all this out Timmy realizes he’s been slowly palming his cock through his French terry sweatpants.

“That’s funny,” Armie says, and Timmy swears he hears a catch in Armie’s voice between syllables. “That’s what I remember too. How goddamn soft you are, inside and out. How you never broke eye contact when you cried. How fucking hot your hands looked in your hair, your hair’s so fucking soft, Timmy, just like you, and when you touch your neck right at the spots where you can feel the life right under the skin—god—”

And Timmy swears, even with a shitty cellphone connection and 3000 miles between them, that he hears Armie unzip his pants.

“So if you didn’t call to see how I’m doing,” Armie murmurs, “I bet I know why you did call.”

“Hmm,” Timmy moans, and he means it to sound like a question although it comes out more like a plea.

“You want to feel my hands in your hair.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Pulling your head back so I can get to that spot behind your ear. You know the one.”

Timmy knows the one. The one Armie likes to touch ever so softly with the tip of his tongue, and it always gives Timmy goosebumps and makes him hard instantly. Automatically, Timmy reaches back to touch that spot behind the ear that’s not holding his phone, and he hisses almost inaudibly into the speaker.

“You’re touching it, aren’t you?” Armie sounds a little out of breath himself, and Timmy starts picturing him on his massive couch, in that damn vintage sweatshirt, enormous hand around his enormous cock.

“Y-yes,” Timmy gasps.

“That’s not very nice of you, to do that when I’m not there.” Armie’s voice grows more authoritative. “You know I can’t be there. You know how fucking bad I want to be there, Timmy. I want to show you how fucking badly I want you.”

Timmy becomes subservient as soon as Armie speaks. His hand freezes where it is. “Tell me how,” he whispers.

“First, close your eyes. Remember our bed in Crema.” As soon as Timmy even thinks of the bed in Crema he almost comes immediately. “Remember what I used to do to you there.” Timmy gets flashes, all of them good: heat, salt, rope, sometimes a softness of fabric over his eyes, sometimes the hardness of Armie in places Timmy didn’t know he was wired for pleasure. It’s like Armie’s there, he can see him, leaning over Timmy in that tiny room in the East Village. “Now take your hand and pull it through your hair, Really grab it, like I used to, and when you get to the back of your head, pull hard.”

Maybe it’s that Timmy’s hands are still cold from outside, and don’t feel like his own yet, maybe it’s Armie’s voice, maybe it’s the lack of visual input, but all of a sudden Timmy’s hand doesn’t feel like his own. He feels his own dark curls as if they belong to a stranger, feels how they must have seemed to Armie that first time, a symbol of how Timmy himself is even more beautiful for never striving to control.

Timmy pulls hard on the back of his curls, laying bare his impossibly long, silky throat. “I can see you now, Timmy,” Armie rasps, “that fucking neck of yours, I love feeling where your blood pulses under my head, when I’m sleeping on your shoulder. I love how your neck feels different to each one of my fingers. Touch it—”

But Armie doesn’t even have to keep commanding. Timmy has already moved his hand to his neck and is caressing one side of his neck in circles with his thumb while drumming his fingers slowly on the other side. He feels what Armie means: the blood vessels, so close to the surface, so vital to Timmy being alive and remaining the Timmy that Armie— _ yes _ —loves, but separated from the air by the thickness of skin.

“Swallow.” Armie commands, and Timmy does, and feels his Adam’s apple bob under his hand, another function so important and yet so fragile. How many times he had let Armie do this, close his giant hands around Timmy’s throat, firmly yet somehow gently, and he had never been afraid. All the china-thin processes going on under Armie’s fingers, and Timmy had never doubted him for a second.

“Squeeze it,” Armie commands, but his voice is dry and Timmy can tell that he’s been stroking this entire time. Timmy closes his fingers around his throat, just a little, enough that he can feel his own pulse quicken, but that’s it. “Not hard enough that you can’t talk. You can talk, can’t you, Timmy?”

Timmy swallows, and finds that that still works too. “Yes, sir,” he moans, and it sounds a little broken, a little restrained, a little like Timmy himself at this moment, but the voice is there.

At the use of the title, Armie himself moans loudly and Timmy secretly thanks fuck that Liz was out of the house tonight. “Oh, fuck, Timmy,” Armie sighs, and Timmy can hear his breath turn to panting. “Put your hand on that beautiful fucking cock of yours.”

Timmy doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s been straining at the seam of his sweatpants this whole time. His cock leaps up into his hand and he starts to stroke, using Armie’s breaths to time his own movements. He keeps his eyes closed—if he does, maybe he can pretend it’s Armie’s hand, that when he opens his eyes Armie will be there to kiss him on the head while he falls asleep—that tomorrow they can dork around on Timmy’s keyboard and fuck lazily on the area rug—with Armie’s hand around his throat in that way he likes, and because he likes it Timmy likes to give it to him—

“Shit!” Armie exclaims, and Timmy knows that means he just came. At the sound of it, Timmy himself lets go and feels the orgasm pulse against his hand, cum soaking his stomach and the waistband of his sweats.

“Oh, fuck, Armie,” and out of habit, having just had an orgasm and hearing Armie’s voice, Timmy opens his eyes.

A lone band of light stripes across the ceiling and is gone. It might as well be the Italian sun for as long as it lasts.

Timmy is alone.

“Hey,” Armie’s voice has that teasing tone he sometimes gets after good sex. “What the fuck was that on Facebook anyway? Pretending you didn’t know where I was and that I wasn’t watching?”

He knows Armie’s teasing but still feels guilty nonetheless. “Armie, I was just—we’d just seen each other, and no one was supposed to know, and I wanted it to look real, and—”

“That was a step too far, kid. I didn’t figure you for an asshole.”

Was Armie kidding? Was he? When Armie had been drinking scotch and had too little sleep, it was impossible for Timmy to tell. “Shit, Armie, it’s what they told me to say—Brian’s been coaching me really well on this stuff and I wanted to make the right impression and—fuck, please don’t be mad at me.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Fuck, Armie, what can I do? I’ll do anything, come on, we’ll talk it over next time and get our stories more straight, shit, please don’t do this, I can’t lose you—”

“Come to New York.” Armie’s voice is so clear and the request so precise Timmy almost suspects he’s been planning it.

“What? Armie, I can’t, I’ve got events in LA for the Oscars and—”

“There’s a stupid magazine cover party tomorrow night. Come in for the night and keep me company. Liz is gonna be rambling around name dropping and getting wine-stupid and I can’t fucking take it, Timmy.” Armie’s voice drops a notch. “I want you there.”

“I’m gonna have to fly right back and—”

“You’re the big hotshot actor now, you’ve got money, right?” Armie’s tone is teasing, but he’s right. Sony has given Timmy an embarrassing amount of flight vouchers. He could text Brian from the party, let him know where he went, that might work, and there’s actually nothing this  _ particular _ Friday....

“I don’t want to lose you, I don’t. Please don’t be mad. I’ll do it. I’ll come.”

"Didn’t you just do that?”

“Shut up,” but there was a smile in Timmy’s voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


End file.
